


When All This Is Over...

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, also a mouse is there, but when you're pining, lockdown - Freeform, the love language of wax seals, two months shouldn't be a long time for immortal celestial beings, with art!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Just like Rome.  Petronius and those oysters; good wine and good company.  That had been the first of he and Crowley’s, well, he didn’t want to say ‘dates’.  Actually, he did want to say dates, he ought to say ‘casual friendly lunches’.  Right now though, in the still and silence of the bookshop, he can’t quite bring himself to care one way or the other.He holds the cookbook in his hands and thinks.  Thinks about the way Crowley’s long fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass.  About how open and unguarded Crowley is while he drinks his espresso, content to let Aziraphale eat his fill, wanting nothing for himself.  About how right now Crowley could be here, watching him eat cake.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 239
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	When All This Is Over...

**Author's Note:**

> Who else is still reeling from the Good Omens Lockdown video? No? Yes? Maybe? xD
> 
> A big big thanks to [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur) for the brit-picking, [goosewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goosewriting) for the beta work, and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies) for the amazing pieces of art in here they are so beautiful and I cried a lot T-T. Go check them all out! I love them all so much!

“You know,” Crowley drawls through the phone, “I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle, a case, of something drinkable.”

And wouldn’t that be something, Aziraphale thinks to himself. Some company right now would be lovely. The burglars had been unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. The thought of Crowley here with him drinking wine and watching him eat sends an all too familiar thrill through him. 

Things had been nice lately. More relaxed. Clandestine meetings were now just days spent at the park. Lunch was no longer a means to an end, but something to be enjoyed together. None of the rendezvous points had names anymore (except when Crowley was feeling particularly ridiculous) - they were just places that they visited together. Gazes lingered, hands brushed over glasses of wine. Crowley spent more time sleeping in Aziraphale’s backroom than he ever had in the past. But, inevitably, he’d still wake up and go back to his flat - murmuring something about the plants on his way out.

“Hunkering down” seemed like a lot. There was no way to know how long this would last at the outset. Crowley could be stuck here for months. Lots of time to get sick of one fussy angel; lots of time to remember just how much Aziraphale had done wrong by him.

Besides that…they’re living by the rules of humanity now. Their own side - them and humanity. That’s what they had agreed to during their long lunch at the Ritz all those months ago. This is the important thing, to take care of them, even if it means being apart for a while longer. They’d risked everything for humanity, to save them from the forces of Heaven and Hell (actual level of usefulness notwithstanding). It wouldn’t make sense, none at all, to throw it to the wind now.

“No, I… I… I… I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules,” Aziraphale stammers out before he can stop himself, falling back on that comfortable old pattern. “Out of the question! I’ll see you… when… this is over?”

He hopes Crowley can’t hear the sadness in his voice. That he doesn’t do what he always does and circles back. Tempt, deny, tempt, give in - their well-worn dance of centuries and millennia. Aziraphale knows if Crowley insisted he wouldn’t be able to say no.

“Right.” Crowley says with resignation in his voice. “Um... I’m setting the alarm clock for July.” 

July is so far away, Aziraphale nearly tells him to stop, to not go to sleep. They can chat on the phone again, be with each other that way. Spend time together over this distance with the sound of their voices at least. He says none of this. His coward’s tongue remains silent even as his sadness builds.

“Goodnight, angel.” Crowley says in a voice soft as anything before hanging up the phone. Aziraphale sits in the silence of the darkening bookshop and tries desperately not to imagine hearing that every night.

\--

Across town at his flat in Mayfair, Crowley taps ‘end call’ on his phone. He heaves a heavy sigh, setting a reminder for 10am on July the 1st and rolls over onto his side. It’s not all bad, he’ll see Aziraphale when this is over. Maybe he’ll tell him when all of this is over, the extent of these emotions that eat him up inside. His eyes start to fall shut as sleep begins to overtake him, and he wraps his arms around a pillow pretending that it’s an angel.

\--

Two weeks in and he’s getting sick of it already. Aziraphale has a sweet tooth, of course, but there’s only so far that can go. He’d really love to sit down to a nice plate of gravlax and dill sauce, or maybe a coq au vin. Something luscious with a nice bit of umami. Savory, earthy, perhaps a bit spicy.

For the good of humanity he is stuck here in the shop, so he peruses his cookbook section for something a bit more savory 1. He misses restaurants. He misses the waitstaff; someone else pouring the wine for you is always a bit of a treat. He misses the clean linen tablecloths and opening a menu, starting a new journey of his own with every new establishment. He misses getting to know the chefs, blessing them and their businesses. He misses softly playing music and the chatter of humanity in a background hum around him. He misses yellow eyes behind sunglasses across the table from him. He misses clinking wine glasses together in a toast to whatever the thing of the moment is. He misses a Cheshire Cat smile, mischievous but fond, flashed at him in these moments. He misses…well, he misses a lot of things. Best not to go down that road at the moment. Nothing to be done.

He stops on an old volume called _A New Booke of Cookerie_ , taking a second to smile to himself at how languages change and evolve. He opens it and flips through for a bit, landing on a recipe for, of all things, pickled oysters. _“Halfe a pinte of white Wine, and halfe a pinte of white Wine vinegar.”_ Oysters sound delectable. Though maybe not pickled. But maybe…on the half shell. With some lemon juice and a bit of honey. Mixed with just a bit of wine. Briny and salty, that would be the ticket, just like-

_Oh._

Just like Rome. Petronius and those oysters; good wine and good company. That had been the first of he and Crowley’s, well, he didn’t want to say ‘dates’. Actually, he _did_ want to say dates, he _ought_ to say ‘casual friendly lunches’. Right now though, in the still and silence of the bookshop, he can’t quite bring himself to care one way or the other. 

He holds the cookbook in his hands and thinks. Thinks about the way Crowley’s long fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass. About how open and unguarded Crowley is while he drinks his espresso, content to let Aziraphale eat his fill, wanting nothing for himself. About how right now Crowley could be here, watching him eat cake. 

And Crowley _had_ said that, hadn’t he? Aziraphale hadn’t imagined it, he’s sure. An odd thing to want to do with a friend, outside of an eating establishment at least.

He puts the cookbook back on the shelf and sighs, not feeling much like cooking anything now. He has an old Milton that needs re-binding, he’ll distract himself with that for now.

Seven weeks left to go.

\--

_Snrrtt_

In a flat in Mayfair, under artificial pitch black darkness (bit of a demonic miracle), a demon snores away. He snuggles up to his pillow, arms still wrapped around it. A faint mumble that could possibly sound like “Aziraphale” escapes from his lips as he continues to sleep.

\--

_Skitter skitter skitter_

The scratching and skittering is driving Aziraphale up the proverbial wall. Soon enough, possibly the actual wall, if that’s where he has to go to get away from them.

Currently, he’s on his hands and knees with a broom handle, arguing with a very stubborn little mouse. It’s taken up residence under one of the larger bookshelves and refuses to see reason2. All the mouse does is stare at him with his beady little eyes while he rubs his tiny hands together.

Aziraphale does _not_ trust the tiny little hands. Too much mischief.

He has his face pressed to the floorboards, one eye closed. He can see the mouse there, sniffing at the broom handle. He’s trying to be gentle, moving the handle slowly, trying to coax the little thing out of hiding. “Come on then, little one, not gonna hurt you,” Azirpahale coos at it through gritted teeth. “Just going to catch you and drop you outside, everything will be tip top then.”

The mouse stares at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stares at the mouse.

The next events happen in such quick succession that they must be broken down accordingly: The mouse, sensing impending danger, shoots forward directly towards Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale, sensing an impending mouse, jumps back and screeches in a high pitched tone that only occurs when one hits the high notes in some of the harder celestial harmonies. The shelf behind him, sensing an impending angel, braces for impact as he knocks into it. Twelve of the books on the shelf, sensing impending floorboards and being able to do nothing about it, fall with various thunks and thuds, most of them landing directly on Aziraphale’s head.

“Cheeky little bugger, aren’t you,” Aziraphale says as he rubs his head. Two beady eyes stare out at him from under the desk. “I’ll have you know that I have a dear friend who is very much a wily serpent and would love nothing more than to make a nice meal out of you.”

The mouse does not react to this news, merely sits, sniffling with his nose, occasionally rubbing an ear with one of his tiny little feet. Aziraphale leans back against the bookshelf, rubbing the bridge of his nose and heaving a sigh.

“He’d be able to catch you, get you out of my hair, stop your incessant _skittering_ . It’s dreadfully distracting, _some_ of us are trying to _read_.” The mouse squeaks at him but otherwise has no reaction.

He’s never been what one would call “fast”. Always a bit on the portly and soft side of things, preferring a peaceful and lazy way of life; preferring to puzzle out the logic over a period of time to acting first and asking questions later. Crowley has always been the opposite. Coming up with his cunning plans and loopholes on the fly, worrying about the consequences when they smack him in the face.

Like the Arrangement. Aziraphale could still feel the dampness of Wessex around him if he concentrated hard enough. Feel the swoop in his stomach of seeing his old friend be replaced by dread at the very thought of what Crowley had been proposing.

“He’s so clever, you know,” Aziraphale continues in spite of himself. “He came up with our Arrangement, after all. Knew we could work better together. Always willing to take that step, he is. Even when I’m not.”

Crowley had been right, of course. Took the end of the world for either side to even start to suspect anything. Crowley was right on many occasions, Aziraphale was just never quick to admit to that. 

“Not me, though. You see, I rather fall behind him quite a bit. He just goes so fast, you understand,” Aziraphale looks to the mouse, who has crept just a little bit closer to him and almost appears to be listening. “Good heavens, what am I doing. Talking to a mouse like it’s a person, I really must be going out of my head.”

The little mouse tilts his head and skitters a little bit closer, looking up at him with big black eyes. And maybe it’s the loneliness, or maybe the mouse actually does care. But suddenly Aziraphale can’t bring himself to kick the little fellow out of the shop.

“I suppose, if I were to let you stay here, you’d need a proper name.” Aziraphale says, placing a hand on his chin and furrowing his brow. “What do you think about Theodore?” The mouse squeaks in what Aziraphale can only assume is agreement. “Jolly good, then I shall call you Theodore.”

Aziraphale holds out his hand and Theodore creeps onto his palm. He gets himself up off the floor, brushing the dust off his trousers.

“How do you feel about cake?” He asks as they make their way to the kitchen, still cluttered with it’s plethora of baked goods.

Five weeks to go.

\--

In Crowley’s building in Mayfair, neighbors are becoming aware of a vague hissing noise. They’ve complained to the building management, but nothing’s been done. Anyone sent to check has either been unable to find the flat in question or wandered off while trying to unlock the door.

A great black snake lies under a thick blanket, hissing loudly in his sleep. Crowley doesn’t often slip into his snake form, but sometimes in a deep, deep sleep, it just happens. A particularly loud hiss and he wakes himself up. 

He shakes his reptilian head, adjusting to the colors. Well, to the lack of colors. He tries to stretch his arms, finds that nothing moves. This registers as a bit off, but his mind is far too sleep-addled to understand why. He darts his tongue out and scents the air, feeling a good long stretch ripple up his spine and flutter his scales.

He also suddenly has a very odd craving for mice.

Ah, yeah, that’ll do it. Realizing he’s in his snake form, he focuses and shifts back to his usual corporation before collapsing back onto the pillows and snoring loudly.

\--

Clattering and cursing can be heard throughout Soho. A miasma of bad will is coating the streets and seeping into people’s bones. One might suspect a demonic influence; one would be completely mistaken.

After the rousing success of Aziraphale’s baking endeavors, he’s decided to try his hand at something bigger. Something complex and malleable, that can take on any flavors he wishes. Something he has missed quite dearly for the entirety of this lockdown3.

Upon discovering the existence of one “French Cooking For Beginners” in the cookbook section, Aziraphale has decided to try his hand at crepes. Can’t get decent ones outside of Paris, but he thinks if he puts his mind to it, he can make some that are good enough. After all, he won’t be going back to Paris until…well…who really knows? They can’t be _that_ difficult, can they?

Turns out, they actually are.

“Drat!” he exclaims as he flips the one currently baking in the pan. The underside is charred black as coal, giving off a bit of smoke. He tosses it onto the ever-growing reject pile.

The kitchen is a disaster. Flour covers almost every surface and sticks in his hair, making it itch. Big, sticky globs of batter make their spaces on the counters and the floor, even on the ceiling (though don’t ask him how that happened). There’s some burnt onto the hob, making the whole place smell of smoke. He’d meticulously sliced fresh strawberries earlier for the filling, and they now sit turning brown in their little plastic container.

His apron and his clothes are coated in who knows what anymore. Is it flour? Batter? Strawberry juice? Some other unknown variable he’s forgotten about? He doesn’t even know anymore and doesn’t much care.

“You could help out a bit, you know,” he snaps towards Theodore, who has taken up position by the reject pile, stealing a nibble now and then. Mice are not, it seems, a picky sort. “Though I guess destroying the evidence counts as helping somehow.”

He heaves a sigh and sticks out his hand, almost an unconscious motion at this point, so that Theodore can scamper up his arm and onto his shoulder. He walks over and sits at the little bistro table, staring out the window. “I think it is beyond time for a break.”

Theodore squeaks at him, a noise that has become a welcome companion over the last two weeks. Aziraphale miracles the flour out of the top of his cup of tea with a grimace.

“Yes, I know I could miracle them, but it doesn’t taste the _same_ . Better the old fashioned way. I just didn’t think it would be this much trouble.” He’s been feeling bereft these last couple of months, that much he knows. Really it’s quite silly. He’s gone centuries before without seeing Crowley, why is it different now? Why does it _hurt_ so much now? Each day with no word from the demon drives him just a little bit battier.

He thinks back to crepes in Paris. Crowley had swooped in like a hero from a novel, saved him his fate at the gallows. Wouldn’t even let him say thank you at the time. He’s been thinking about the past a lot lately. About crepes and oysters and Hamlet. Miracled stains out of old coats and bandstands and mistakes. How if Crowley were here it would take just one pouty look to have crepes directly from Paris and whatever else he could possibly want.

“Maybe I’ve been a bit of a fool, don’t you think so Theodore?” The little mouse doesn’t answer, just climbs down his arm and onto the table. “I do miss him terribly. Suppose I should just admit it to myself at this point.”

Aziraphale has been speaking more freely around Theodore. Something about his big ears makes Aziraphale feel like he’s actually listening. And besides, might be good to get it out there, in the open. Not that Crowley can hear it.

“It scares me sometimes, you know,” Aziraphale continues, fiddling with his ring and banishing some flour out of the grooves of it with a thought. “I know how he feels. Oh, yes, he thinks he’s very clever, but you can’t hide love from an angel. He’s been reaching out for a long time…”

He’s scared, at the end of the day. Aziraphale knows his own feelings, has had centuries to map them out forwards and backwards. The prospect of being that close for so long; he’s having trouble holding things in already, he doesn’t know how long he’d last with his lips loosened by good wine and good company.

But there’s the rub of it, isn’t it? Crowley’s _been_ here. He’s been doing and giving and never pushing further than he feels he can. For a demon he can be absolutely selfless with his gifts, with his acts of service.

Aziraphale looks at the strawberry stain on his apron, but he thinks about a blue paint stain on a coat.

“You know, I think it’s time I tried reaching back.” Theodore squeaks his assent as Aziraphale snaps his fingers. The kitchen is at once sparkling as he tosses his apron onto the table, scooping Theodore up in his hands before going back downstairs.

He sits at his desk and pulls out a leaf of parchment and a quill, a lovely thing made of pewter and a long black feather that’s a relic in and of itself. “Right then,” he says as he perches his glasses on his nose, “time to get to work.”

Three weeks left to go.

\--

Crowley blinks his eyes open slowly, yawning and stretching. He scratches an errant itch that’s come to visit his ribs with one hand while the other pushes his hair back out of his eyes. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and grimaces. Water.

He begrudgingly steps into his slippers and makes his way to the gleaming stainless steel kitchen. It wouldn’t dare be anything else. There’s a glass in the cupboard, because he expects there to be one, and he runs himself some water from the sink. 

He lumbers back to his bed, taking long gulps of the water before sinking back under the covers and back to sleep.

\--

The streets are becoming repopulated, people going back to their jobs and their friends and their hobbies. It’s not quite the same, still some tension in the air. Still a blanket of what-happens-next over the city like a thick fog. But life is making an attempt to return to normalcy.

Aziraphale has already taken the opportunity to visit his favorite sushi place (as takeaway, of course; things might be returning to normal but best to set a good example anyway). It was a welcome change from the loosely defined “sushi” from Tesco’s. Even Theodore had nibbled a little of the rice. Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin, sighing with the satisfaction that only comes from a well-prepared meal. 

On his desk sits a letter. A letter that has been written and rewritten several times over. The wastebasket by his desk is piled high with crumpled paper. Too contrived, too simple, too complex. Aziraphale has always been a lover of _words_ ; a collector of them, too. But for this, for the most important words he’s ever written, they had to be absolutely perfect. He picks up the latest incarnation from last night and reads it over again.

_My dearest Crowley_

_I hope this letter finds you well, I am quite sure when it does you will still be snoozing blissfully. I eagerly await when we may see each other again. I must admit, each day without your presence only further solidifies my resolve in this matter. I am a purveyor of words, but words of the heart are much more difficult. However, after all you have done for me in our long friendship, I feel it is only right that I ‘bite the bullet’ or however the expression goes._

_I love you, Crowley, have done for quite a long time. It took me far longer than it should have for me to admit it to myself. But oh, my dearest, how I love you. I long to be able to walk beside you in the park; to listen to you argue with the ducks and to be able to reach out and take your hand as we go. I want you here, with me, in the bookshop. You could rest your head in my lap while I read, I could run my fingers through your hair. Is it soft? It always looks so soft. There were times - in the past, when you had worn it long - it took everything in me to not reach out and feel it between my fingers, to know what it would be like to be able to love you in the open. I want to go with you to the little restaurants here in London, where they know me, so they can know you, too. So they can know, just as I know, that there is no me without you._

_Most of all, I want to have a life with you. I want you to be the first person I see in the morning, I want your eyes to be the last thing I see before I fall asleep. I want you hogging the blankets in the winter because I know how cold you get. I want to watch you glue coins to the sidewalk outside of the bookshop and pretend to scold you, but you’ll know that I don’t mean it. That everything you do could be nothing but endearing to me at the end of the day. I want to argue about where to get takeaway from or about how you organize your records or about who’s turn it is to do the dishes. I want all the petty squabbles that come with a love that lasts._

_I want to kiss you. Quite badly, actually. I’ve wanted to since Rome. I’d never known jealousy until I watched you tip an oyster past your lips and thought, unbidden, that I wished to everything in existence that I was that oyster. I wanted to kiss you while we watched Hamlet, among the crowds. I wanted to kiss you in Paris, when you saved me from myself. I wanted to kiss you after our big fight. Kiss you senseless and beg you to stay. In 1941 I wanted nothing more than to wrap you in my arms and keep you close to me forever and to kiss you until neither of us could breathe any longer. I wanted to kiss you while you were drunk and rambling about dolphins. When you walked away from me, when I pushed you, I wanted to run after you. I wanted to go to Alpha Centauri, though we both know that would never have worked. When I found you, at the end, I couldn’t see you, but I could hear you. I wanted nothing more than to kiss the tears off of your face._

_And as we stood there together, at the end of all things, relying on an 11 year old boy to save the world, I wanted to pull you into my arms and tell you I love you as many times as my breath would have allowed in whatever space we had left. I wanted to kiss you at that bus stop. I wanted to kiss you before we went our separate ways the next morning. I wanted to kiss you at the Ritz._

_I know I am old-fashioned, and I know I tend to move a bit slow in things. But my darling, if you’ll have me, I’m done moving slow with this. I want you, I want_ _us_ _. In whatever shape that takes. I’m forever in this life here, with you, if you’ll have me. On our own side, until the end of time._

_My heart aches with this separation, but you must understand I was terrified. I still am, just a bit. I worry that I’ve gone too slow. That I have missed my chance for more with you, and if that is so, then I shan’t speak of it again. Your friendship is more than enough for me, and will be enough for as long as I have the privilege of knowing you._

_With all of my love, yours always,_

_Aziraphale_

It’s a bit long and wordy, but it’s all from his heart. There’s so much more that he can’t articulate on paper, so many more things he wants to say.

He looks to the old Bakelite for a beat, but it doesn’t ring. He takes a deep breath and carefully folds the letter before placing it into a parchment envelope. He dips his quill into a fresh ink pot and scrawls Crowley’s address across the front, looping the ‘y’s and adding a flourish to the numbers. He blows on it just a bit to dry it faster before opening a desk drawer to find his wax. 

He picks one in a deep green, the color of hopeful lovers. He knows wax language fell out ages ago, but there’s something about knowing this one last bit shows his heart immediately that comforts him. He hovers the wax through a candle flame before dripping some onto the envelope. Aziraphale presses his signet ring into the wax, sealing his hopes with his signature. “Yes, I believe this will do —“ he holds out the envelope to Theodore, who sniffs at it inquisitively, “— don’t you think so, Theodore?”

Theodore just squeaks at him, but Aziraphale is certain he can see the little mouse smile. “Right then, no time like the present,” Aziraphale puts his glasses back down on the desk and makes his way to the door. “Wish me luck!” 

He dons his coat and heads outside, sparing a glance at the coffeeshop across the street. It was a bar, several decades ago. The underground criminals of Soho used to plan heists there. He remembers one in particular. _Too fast_. Well, maybe back then. Not anymore. He collects himself, straightens his waistcoat, pats his pocket to make sure the letter is safely tucked inside, and begins his journey.

He takes his time on the walk to Mayfair, relishing the fresh air, trying to calm his nerves. Corporations, as a rule, are not beholden to human conditions like breathing and heartbeats. His seems to have forgotten this entirely; currently favoring a racing heartbeat and sweaty palms. 

His stomach swoops as he reaches the buildings in Mayfair, remembering a day when he wore his dear demon’s face and hoped for a miracle. He worries at his signet ring and paces a bit. What if Crowley _is_ awake and just doesn’t want to see him? What if he’s messed things up by telling Crowley no? It’s silly, of course it is, they’re on their own side now. Together. Crowley said he would see him when this is over and, well, it’s over. There’s no reason to be nervous, none at all.

He takes the lift up to Crowley’s floor, knocks quietly at the door. No answer. He knocks a bit louder, still no answer. Well, it wouldn’t do to not _check_ on him, would it? Aziraphale taps the door handle and it opens for him, something it’s done since the night the world didn’t end. Like the flat knows he means no harm. He turns the handle and lets himself in.

There’s a thin layer of dust over everything and the flat is in almost total darkness. Aziraphale makes his way carefully through, stopping for just a moment to spread a bit of praise and good will amongst the plants. Crowley is so very hard on them, after all, and they’re doing their best.

He pushes open the door to Crowley’s bedroom slowly, quiet as he can be. The curtains are drawn tight, but there’s a thin stream of light still breaking through, reflecting the dust particles as they float through the air. It lands on the bed, on a shock of red hair peeking out from under the duvet. A splash of crimson in a sea of black satin. Aziraphale’s eyes adjust to the light as he stares.

Crowley is peaceful here, more so than Aziraphale has ever seen him. The worry lines that mark his face are eased and his breathing is soft and steady. Crowley’s arms are wrapped around one of his pillows, holding tight like his life depends on it. Aziraphale wishes, for just a moment, that he were a painter. He’d capture this moment on canvas and keep it for all eternity.

Aziraphale’s heart feels full to bursting, all of these emotions that have nowhere to go. He won’t wake Crowley, though, he’s too peaceful like this. He takes the letter out of his pocket, placing a kiss to the seal before lying it on the pillow next to Crowley. He pauses for just a moment before placing one finger to Crowley’s forehead.

“May you dream of whatever you like best, my dearest.” Aziraphale whispers to the dark room. Crowley sighs and sinks lower into his blankets, wrapping his arms around the pillow even tighter.

Aziraphale makes his way out of the flat and back to Soho, not stopping until he’s back inside the bookshop. He leans against the closed door and heaves a heavy sigh. Nothing to do now but wait.

Four days left to go.

\--

The blaring of his alarm drags Crowley out of his slumber. July 1st, right on time. He sits up and rubs his eyes, blinking a few times to let his pupils adjust.

“That time already?” He asks to no one in particular, his phone still blaring Baby Shark (only the most annoying of alarms will do when he sleeps this long). He looks at it, willing it to turn itself off. But iPhones are not susceptible to demonic wiles, so he picks it up and swipes the alarm off instead. 

He checks his news app, main stories are about business bouncing back since a few days ago. The lockdown is over. “Fucking finally,” Crowley says, tossing his phone beside him on the bed before flopping back onto his pillows.

He needs to have a plan. He can’t just randomly show up at the bookshop after two months. Say ‘oh hey angel, how’s the baking? By the way I’m in love with you, have been for what I can remember of my existence, and the world is better asleep than it is having to be without you for any amount of time now.’ Right, that would go over well.

Crowley groans and rubs his eyes again. If he gets out of bed, he’ll have to take action. The memory of whatever he was dreaming is fading, but he knows it was good. Might as well get five more minutes. He rolls over to face the wall and is immediately poked in the nose.

“Oi, what’s that then!” He shouts at whatever the offending item is, groping around in the dark before finding the culprit. He sits back up and snaps his fingers, lights fading on gradually so he can adjust.

It’s a letter, old fashioned on parchment. Looping calligraphy on the outside that he’d know anywhere. A deep green wax seal, with the image of a very familiar signet ring. A ring that Crowley’s eyes follow as the hand that wears it gestures through conversation. A deep green that speaks of hopefulness.

He opens it carefully, not wanting to disrupt the seal, already sparing a thought for a miracle to keep the letter and the seal pristine for at least a thousand years. He reads the words written there, and then he reads them a second time.

Another snap of his fingers and he’s fully dressed, already making his way out the door. The keys to the Bentley jangle in his hand as he flies down the stairs.

Crowley speeds through the streets of London with all of his usual abandon. A bit more than usual, as his heart resides in his throat.

_I love you, Crowley, have done for quite a long time._

Why? Why hadn’t Aziraphale woken him up? Just walked in and left his whole confession on Crowley’s pillow instead. Despite the speed, Crowley feels time is slowed. It’s taking him far longer than it ever does to get to the bookshop, even if that’s all in his head.

\--

Across town, in the bookshop, Aziraphale sits listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock. He shuffles the papers on his desk and then shuffles them again. He gets up and paces, through the Shakespeares, looping around the stack of Wildes, past the cookbooks and back again. It’s 10 AM. Surely he would’ve heard from Crowley by now.

Was it too much? Not enough? Is Crowley disgusted with this blatant display of emotion? He doesn’t like being called ‘nice’, and if that’s a four letter word for him Aziraphale can’t think what ‘love’ might count as. 

“What do you think, Theodore?” He asks the little mouse, currently sniffing at the air and cleaning his ears. “Did we really make a mess of things this time?”

His thoughts are stopped by the familiar roar of an engine as it comes to a stop outside of his shop. He freezes where he stands; no time like the present he supposes. 

“Angel!” Crowley shouts as he slams the door open. It never has stayed locked for him, and it never will. Aziraphale stays still, not making eye contact, his only movement a faint fidgeting of fingers. “Aziraphale, what the actual _fuck_ are you on about?” Crowley shouts, brandishing the letter and waving it through the air.

“I just…well…I needed to…” Aziraphale stammers, eyes on the letter, watching it flit through the air.

“Six thousand bloody years, won’t let me come over, then you’re without me for a couple of months and you what? Miracle a…a…a love letter to my place?”

“If you must know, I took it there myself,” Aziraphale says meekly, staring at the ground.

“You _what_.” Crowley stops moving and his glasses slide down to the end of his nose. His eyes are blown wide, no whites to be seen.

“I took it there myself, after lockdown was lifted, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I left it there!”

“You…you…” Crowley rubs his temples for a moment. “Hold on, give me a second here to understand.”

Whatever Aziraphale had expected, it hadn’t been this. Of course, his expectations had varied wildly over the last few days. From a complete cutoff of contact, to being swept into Crowley’s arms, to for some reason Gabriel or Beelzebub finding the letter and (through a convoluted series of events) this leading to the end of both of them.

“You broke into my flat— “

“I didn’t break in, the door let me in like it always does!”

“Fine, whatever,” Crowley says, waving his hand through the air, “you came into my flat, snuck into my bedroom, and left a letter on my pillow?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says defiantly before faltering a bit. “I…um…also blessed your dreams, if you must know.”

“You- ngk- you- “ Crowley stares open-mouthed at him. “You _blessed my dreams_?”

“You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you!” Aziraphale says, turning on his heel to go back to the desk and shuffle through papers again. Anything to keep his hands busy at this point. “Also, I was a bit scared.”

“Scared?” Crowley says, rounding on him and leaning on the desk, trying to make eye contact, “Scared of _what_ exactly—“ He’s interrupted by a bit of angry squeaking near his hand. “Why is there a mouse on your desk?”

“That is _Theodore_ , Crowley, and he is a guest!” Aziraphale says, finally facing Crowley directly. He’s stopped in the middle of his tirade. There’s a look in Crowley’s eyes that he can’t place, one he’s only caught glimpses of on occasion, when Crowley thinks he isn’t looking. Crowley reaches out with one finger and scritches the top of Theodore’s head. He squeaks appreciatively and scampers off to destinations unknown.

“So,” Crowley says, much calmer now, “scared, then?”

“Yes, much as I’d rather not be,” Aziraphale says, resigned. He leans against the desk, hands resting on top of it, a few inches from where Crowley leans back against it. “Been scared for a long time, loved you for a long time, too. They go hand in hand, it would seem. I’m sorry.”

Crowley sighs and runs a hand through his hair before bringing it to rest very near Aziraphale’s own. “Angel, what on earth or any of the kingdoms thereof do you have to be sorry for right now?”

“Why shouldn't I be?” Aziraphale’s voice cracks around the question. “For assuming things, for letting you down, for being wrong.”

“Wrong?” Crowley asks as he turns his head. Aziraphale can feel his eyes on him. 

“Yes, obviously.” Aziraphale gathers himself and pushes his emotions back down. “You’re upset. My letter upset you.”

“You think…your letter…” Crowley asks softly and slowly.

“Well I mean yes if you’re going to drive over in a huff and slam into the shop and be shouty about things.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be shouty.” Aziraphale feels Crowley’s little finger touch gently against his own, almost as if he’s afraid to do so. He hadn’t realized the demon’s hand had even moved. “I’m just…why didn’t you wake me up?”

“What?” Aziraphale feels his entire being focus to this one small point of contact, and it burns him from the inside out. This rising hope clawing its way to the surface.

“You could’ve woken me up,” Crowley says with an infinite sadness, “now you’ve been here, what, terrified out of your wits for four days?”

“I have not.”

“You have been! You’re obvious!” Crowley has always seen right through him. Seen the layers in what he says. He always uncovers them, meticulously, one by one. Always gives Aziraphale what he needs. It’s his turn now.

“Well what would be the point. I was too scared to say these things to you properly, too scared to say I wanted you to come over.” He inhales sharply as Crowley’s hand covers his own fully with a gentle touch.

“So you wrote everything in a letter and left it on my pillow and blessed my dreams?” Trembling fingers work their way under Aziraphale’s own, threading their way between them. Aziraphale’s heart, despite not being needed, jumps into his throat. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale swallows thickly as Crowley runs his thumb gingerly along the side of Aziraphale’s hand. Penny in the air. “It…well…it seemed the logical thing to do at the time. I’ve missed you.”

“Couldn’t have guessed,” Crowley says, leaning in closer.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says as his voice starts to stutter, “Wh-what are we doing here?”

“Well,” Crowley says with a smirk, a twinkle of mischief in his yellow eyes, “thought I might kiss you. Seemed like you want to try that an awful lot from your letter.”

“Don’t make _fun_ , Crowley.”

“Who’s making fun?” Crowley huffs indignantly, waving his arm out with a dramatic flourish. “Surely you don’t think that _I_ , Anthony J. Crowley, would be making fun of you.”

Aziraphale stares at him. He has a bright smile plastered to his face, his breathing is fast, and then Aziraphale notices, of all things, Crowley’s palm is sweaty. He looks a bit closer. There’s a twitch to the corner of the demon’s mouth. He can feel the pulse under Crowley’s skin, racing even faster than his own.

And the penny drops.

Aziraphale lurches forward, covering Crowley’s lips with his own. Tasting the cinnamon and the smoke, that faint hint of brimstone, filling up his senses. Crowley is still as a statue under him, and he is filled with an instant regret. He moves to pull away, but before he can, he feels a hand on the back of his neck. And - miracle of miracles - Crowley is kissing him back.

Aziraphale unlinks their fingers in favor of finally _finally_ getting his hands into Crowley’s hair. It’s just as soft as he’d imagined, and he relishes in being able to touch it as Crowley kisses him over and over and over again.

“Angel,” Crowley breathes against his lips and it sounds like a prayer more than anything, “Aziraphale, I dreamed about you, these past two months.” Crowley wraps his arms around him and it feels like a puzzle falling into place. Like this is where Aziraphale should have been all along.

“I love you, I want to hold hands with you in the park —” Crowley plants kisses to Aziraphale’s cheeks, “— I want to go to silly restaurants with you —“ to his temples “— I want to argue about dishes and call you fussy —“ to anywhere his lips can reach. All Aziraphale has the presence of mind to do is stand here, in Crowley’s arms, and be showered with affection.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley cups Aziraphale’s cheek, golden eyes sparkling with happiness or tears or a bit of both, “as long as I’ve known you, it’s always been you.”

“That long, darling?”

“That long and forever after, you’re gonna regret sending that letter,” Crowley says as he kisses him again, “you’ll never be rid of me now.”

“I’d never want to be, dearest,” Aziraphale says as he nuzzles into Crowley’s neck, wrapping his arms tightly around his demon. “In fact I’d rather like it if you never left here again.”

Crowley places a kiss into Aziraphale’s hair, “that mean I can watch you eat cake now?”

“For as long as you like, darling.” Aziraphale sighs with happiness, content to be here wrapped up with Crowley in this little bookshop. “For as long as you like.”

1 Of course it is left to debate whether or not the cookbook section ever existed before the lockdown or if it manifested itself into existence because Aziraphale had a whim about learning to bake. That being said, there’s no counting for whether the savory cookbooks existed before or if they simply came into being at this moment.

2 Mice, as a rule, are completely immune to either angelic or demonic influence. A mouse is only beholden to its own whims and desires.

3 It is the way of the world that when one cannot have something, they distinctly must have it to survive. Even if they have not had this in years, decades, maybe centuries. Once the craving is there, with no way to sate it, bad ideas tend to occur.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on [Tumblr](http://moveslikebucky.tumblr.com) or kick it with the softness in the [Soft Omens Snuggle House Discord](https://discord.gg/QU5krqq)!


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